Blue Blanket
by Karthenia
Summary: Sealand is England's rape baby, and when he finds his other father, Sealand's going to kill him.  Contains mentions of male/male rape, child neglect.  Contains foul language and themes not suitable for children.  Undertones of past FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

_Still, there are days_

_When there's no way_

_Not even a chance_

_That he'll dare for even a_

_Second glance_

_At the reflection of his body in the mirror and I know why_

* * *

England was a jerk, but he had his reasons.

Peter Kirkland, who would definitely absolutely one day be recognized around the world as the great nation of Sealand, knew some of those reasons, even if he pretended not to. He knew if England knew he knew, something bad would happen.

Wales and Scotland and Ireland didn't have the last name Kirkland. Neither did America. Or Canada, or Hong Kong, or India, or anyone else who'd been England's colony. Only little Sealand had the name Kirkland. The reason for that was that England was perfectly right when he said Sealand wasn't his brother.

Peter Kirkland was Arthur Kirkland's son.

* * *

It had been late at night, probably almost midnight, and Peter had sneaked into England's house to wake the jerk up and make England acknowledge him at last, but England foiled his plan by already being awake. He almost busted in anyway, except when he pressed his ear to the door, he heard crying.

"I can't do this." He heard England say, sounding like someone had just shot his cat. "I can't. I can't take it anymore."

There was a long pause, then England laughed, sounding bitter and angry. "Easy for you to say- _you_ raped _me_, not the other way 'round."

A short pause, another bitter laugh, sounding sort of hysterical.

"So? Does that make this easier? Does your being fucking _sorry_ make the nightmares go away? Does it change the fact that ievery bloody time/i that brat looks at me, I see you in him? iDoes it?/i"

Peter couldn't hear much but muffled sobbing now, and he bit his lip. He usually hated jerk England with all his mighty heart, but right now he wanted to go in and give him a hug and tell him everything was going to be all right.

"Shut up. Just shut up." England was talking again, and Peter pressed his ear back against the door. "I should never have kept him, given him my name, given him a home. I should have dumped him on you. I should have got an abortion the minute I figured out I was with child. Shut up! You've _no_ call to tell me what is and isn't right! Sealand is your son, too, you bastard! I hope you both burn in Hell!"

The phone slammed down in the cradle, but Peter barely heard it, already slipping down the hall and away. Away from England, away from whoever had been on the phone, away from the awful truth of where he came from and what he was and the million terrible things he was thinking and feeling.

He wanted to go home and go to bed. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to forget everything he overheard, just erase it all from his memory like erasing words on a chalkboard, but he knew he wouldn't be able to. There was no way to escape it.

He was the child of rape.

* * *

Peter knew what rape was. He knew how to read, he was smart, he'd heard about it on the news and everything. He'd just never known guys could be raped. Or that they could have kids. But now he knew they could on both counts, because England had been raped and then given birth to him.

He didn't dare change the way he acted. He couldn't let England know he'd heard that call, though it gnawed on the back of his mind and made him edgy and restless.

England was his father. And he had another father somewhere, someone who'd hurt England bad. So bad he had nightmares about it.

Part of him wanted to meet his other father and ask him why. Had he wanted a kid? Then why not come back for him when England didn't want him? Had he just wanted to hurt England? Had their been some other reason? Had he been forced to? Paid? Or did he do it just because?

Another part of him wanted to meet his other father and kill him. England was a jerk, but he was the only family Peter knew, and even if he acted like he hated Peter, he'd still built him a home. He hadn't gotten an abortion. He hadn't shipped him off to Africa. He hadn't even really abandoned him, just sort of shunted him off to the side and ignored him for the most part once Peter was old enough to take care of himself. And if someone had hurt England, then someone should be forced to pay.

But the only person who knew who his other father was was England, and he couldn't let England know he knew, so he'd have to accept he'd never find his other father.

* * *

**Notes**

_Just quickly, the words at the beginning are from a poem called _Blue Blanket_, by Andrea Gibson. It's the poem that really inspired me to write this. I'm going to put passages at the beginning and end of each part, though I am going to change gender pronouns and such, and a few later passages that I couldn't change without completely ruining them will have been omitted. And the copy I have was typed up from memory by someone else, so... yeah._

_I'm sorry for messing with your poem, Ms. Gibson! ;-;_

_Thank you for reading this, and thank you in advance to all the people who'll stick it through to the end with me._ orz


	2. Chapter 2

_Like I know why he only cries when he feels he's about to lose control_

_He knows how much control is worth_

_Knows what a person can lose_

_When their power to move_

_Is taken away_

_By a grip so thick with hate_

_It could clip the wings of God_

* * *

That overheard conversation stayed with Peter, festering in the back of his mind. It ate at him, and he felt guilty for all the times he'd called England a jerk or said he hated him.

He started to notice things. Things like before England would yell at him to go away, he'd get a bit paler and step back. Peter wasn't sure if he'd seen that before and just thought it was England getting angry, but now it was pretty obvious that it was England getting scared.

It was an awful secret to have to carry around.

And worse than what he knew was what he didn't know. Because now, every time he ran into one of the other nations, he found himself wondering. Was it France? No, probably not- England's tone was way different from what Peter'd heard while he was on the phone whenever he had to deal with France. America, then? Again, probably not- America would never do something like rape someone.

He couldn't stop thinking about it. Everyone was a suspect, even if he didn't think someone was at first. Maybe it really was Lithuania, and that was why England felt he could call him. Or maybe it was Russia after all, even if Peter didn't see why anyone would call Russia, period. Or America could just not be as stupid and nice as he acted.

He lost sleep over it half the time, lying awake and just listing everyone, trying to narrow it down to who he looked like or who he acted like or something like that, but it was useless.

* * *

Time passed, like it usually does. Peter kept up his mission to finally be acknowledged as a nation, but he had another secret mission, too. He was going to find the nation who'd hurt England – without letting England know he knew – and take revenge for him. Neither one of those missions was going to be easy.

Peter wasn't dumb, he knew he had to have a plan. His plan for being acknowledged was to push and push and demand until someone gave into it, but finding his other father was harder to plan for.

Finally, he came to the conclusion that he needed to find out more information, which meant turning into a spy. England had a crack spy network, according to the movies, and Sealand was England's son, so it only stood to reason Peter would make a good spy, too.

* * *

One thing spy movies never seemed to cover was how useful being small was, probably because spies were all middle-aged guys that did a lot of kissing girls – ew – or the girls those middle-aged guys spent all their time kissing. But someone Peter's size could fit where a grown person or a girl with big boobs couldn't.

Like in the narrow space under the table behind the couch in England's office. The table was almost as high as the back of the couch, but too narrow for an adult to fit under. It had a skirt that brushed the floor and a few pretty statuettes on it, so it looked nice and made a great hiding place, once Peter had sneaked in at night to dust. Table skirts made people forget to sweep under them.

But the important thing was that England could sit at his desk for hours and never know Peter was there. A bottle of water and a sandwich for a snack, and Peter could eavesdrop on anything.

That day had been pretty boring so far, just a bunch of dull phone calls and a meeting with England's boring old boss, and Sealand was thinking of sneaking back out and going home when he heard the door open and England cursed.

"What do you want, frog?" England snapped. "I'm busy. Working. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

It was that special, 'I don't really hate you but damned if I'll let you know that,' tone England only used on France.

The answering laugh was definitely France, and someone flopped down on the couch. "_Angleterre_, you wound me! Here I've taken time from my day to pay you a visit, and you're so cold."

"I'm not in the mood, France." England said flatly, but France only laughed again. "Get out. I mean it. I can't be bothered with you today."

"Well, perhaps we could... meet later?" France suggested. The couch shifted, and footsteps moved towards the desk. "We could play pirates. And all that entails."

A moment's silence, then someone got smacked. Hard.

"Get the hell out!" England yelled, making Sealand jump and cover his mouth with both hands to keep from yelping in surprise. "Get out, you bloody arse, before I kill you!"

More silence, then footsteps moving away, then the door closed. England sighed loudly, then threw something across the room. And started crying.

And nothing – not a single thing that Peter had ever done or ever would do – was half as hard as not crawling out from under that table and going to comfort England in any way he could. Nothing could ever come close to sitting there, not doing anything, and listening to England cry.

* * *

_Leave the next day generations of your blood shaking_

_And tonight, something inside me's breaking_

_My heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of his pain_

_I could give each tear he's crying a year_

_A name_

_And a face I'd forever erase from his mind if I could_

_Just like he would for me_

_Or you_

_But how much closer to free would any of us be_

_If even a few forgot what too many in this world cannot?_


	3. Chapter 3

_And I'm thinking what the hell_

_Would you tell_

_Your daughter?_

_Your someday daughter when you'd have to hold her beautiful face_

_To the beat up face of this place that_

_Hasn't_

_Learned the meaning of_

_Stop_

_Stop

* * *

_

Things were different, in a way that was almost frightening. Peter could no longer bear to be near England half the time, and the other half he couldn't bring himself to stay away. Part of him wanted to go to France and see what he knew, but the rest of him figured that was a bad idea and he didn't want to be molested, which according to England was all France ever did to people.

So Peter did the mature, grown-up thing and compromised.

Since he was a much better cook than England – who wasn't? – and knew all of England's favorite foods and how to make his tea, he started slipping into his office while he was out and leaving him tea, snacks, sometimes lunch if he overheard England planning to not eat. It was all good British food, so England just assumed it was a helpful employee. He'd even told his boss that he was glad _someone_ appreciated how much work he did, and Peter had sat hidden behind the couch and glowed.

But then there were the times when he couldn't stay away and had to see for himself that England was all right. A jerk big brother didn't need looking after, but a workaholic dad did.

And those times were awful. They always ended in shouting matches that made Peter feel like a jerk afterward.

Sometimes when they yelled at each other, Peter would see this weird half angry, half wistful expression cross England's face, just for a second, as if he maybe was enjoying the fight, but it always disappeared, and Peter found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe- if he hadn't been a child of rape and England had had him willingly, could they have been like a real father and son?

* * *

The biggest trouble was that there was no one for Peter to turn to. His only real friend was Raivis, and the shaky stuttering personification of Latvia wouldn't know what to do. All the other nations just thought he was a pest, and there was a chance that any one of them was the father he didn't know but still hated.

His relationship with England became more and more strained as the weeks wore on. He exhausted himself taking care of his father and pretending not to, spying on him and raiding files hoping to find something, anything to help him. He suffered with England every time he had to overhear a nightmare and didn't dare wake England up.

Finally, it all just got to be too much. Peter, for all his boasting and self-sufficiency, was still just a kid. He hadn't been around long at all, he was still young and growing and immature and confused, and everything he was trying to do just became way too much.

After one last screaming match and one last look at the fear and panic in England's eyes, Sealand couldn't take it anymore, so he sold himself.

* * *

Berwald had a last name that Peter couldn't for the life of him figure out how to pronounce. It started with an O, but that was all Peter could tell you. Berwald was a nation like Peter, and he represented Sweden, which wasn't too far from England so the move wouldn't take very long.

Berwald also happened to be just about the single scariest person Peter had ever laid his eyes on. He was huge and had a scary face and talked weird, like a TV monster.

Still, Berwald was the one who'd bought Peter, and Peter was going to go live with him. He had his bags all packed and everything, so England could finally get some peace.

* * *

The trip was shorter than it seemed, being stuck in a car with Berwald, who didn't say one single word the whole time and didn't listen to the radio.

When they finally got to the house, it was getting dark. There were lights on inside, and Peter heard a dog barking while Berwald helped him get his things from the boot.

The door opened right before they reached it. Standing there was a young man wearing a frilly girl-type apron over a military uniform. He had a spatula in one hand and a wiggling white dog in the other.

"Welcome home, Su-san!" The young man exclaimed happily. "I made salmiakki to celebrate the new family member!"

Berwald nodded, taking the dog. "Sealand, Finland." He said, gesturing with the suitcase in his hand.

"I'm the great nation of Sealand!" Peter introduced himself, smiling. "But you can call me Peter."

"I'm Finland." Finland said, smiling back and bending so he was on the same level as Peter. "But my other name is Tino Väinämöinen, so you can call me Tino."

Berwald went inside, managing to take the second suitcase from Peter without putting down the dog, and Peter followed. Might as well jump right in and get used to all the weird names around here.

"What was that you called Berwald?" Peter asked while they walked to the kitchen. "Su-san? What's that mean?"

"It's his name." Tino explained, waving the spatula he was still carrying. "The Su part is short for Sweden, and 'san' is something Japan says at the end of names, so I put them together. Isn't it cute?"

They'd reached the kitchen by then, where Berwald – Peter made a mental note to never call him Su-san, since he was pretty sure coming up with that made Tino crazy – was already busy cooking. There was a plate of something on the table, and whatever it was, there sure was a lot of it. Peter helped himself to a handful without asking and popped one of the little black diamonds in his mouth.

It tasted weird and really salty, but wasn't all that bad. The second piece tasted a bit better, and so did the third, until the whole handful was gone. He reached for another one, but Tino tapped his hand with the spatula.

"No more or you'll spoil your dinner." He warned, taking off the apron.

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes and grumbled, but nodded and kept his hands to himself.

He had two dads now- both could cook, and neither one had called him an idiot or chased him off. Even if one was scary beyond all reason and the other one was obviously crazy, they had a nice house and a dog. He could probably get to like it here.

* * *

_What would you tell your daughter_

_Of the throat screamed bloody?_

_The eyes swollen shut?_

_The gut to frightened to hold food?_

_The thousands upon thousands bodies used and abused?_


	4. Chapter 4

_It was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell_

_Seven_

_And he stopped believing in heaven_

_Distrust became his law_

_Fear his bible_

_The only chance for survival_

_Don't trust any of them_

_Bolt the doors to your home_

_Iron gate your windows_

_Walk to the car alone_

_Put the keys in the lock_

_Please_

_Please_

_Please_

_Open_

* * *

It took some getting used to, living with Berwald and Tino. He liked horror movies, so Berwald was just a bit startling for a while. The real unnerving part of it all was Tino. The man was insane. Very, very mad. Not in a dangerous way, but in the way that made it impossible to follow what he was thinking between one sentence and the next.

Still, Peter did his best to just be happy. All his life, he'd been living in a very tense house that didn't even count as a home, all alone with no pets and no family, so he was grateful. He could put up with Tino being crazy and Berwald being scary. He could even put up with living close to that psycho Russia. Norway was easy to get along with, since he never came by unless Denmark dragged him along.

Denmark, on the other hand, was cool. Denmark didn't treat him like a little kid. He was fun to be around, and even if Sweden beat him up every time he offered Peter a drink, he was still one of the coolest adults Peter had ever met.

And best of all, there was no reason for Denmark and England to have met around the time Peter was born, so it was pretty much impossible for Denmark to be his other father.

* * *

It felt like another life altogether after only a month, which was when Peter next saw England. It was a UN meeting, and Peter claimed he wanted to go because he was the great nation of Sealand and needed to go to be recognized as a country. The look Tino gave him said he didn't believe that for a minute, but they let him come, anyway.

The room was packed, and Sealand hung back to stay hidden, craning his neck to get a look at England.

He looked a bit underfed to Peter's eyes. It was probably that, now that Peter was gone, there was no one to cook for him. He must not be eating very well, but he looked... happier.

Peter hadn't expected the way seeing England happy would make him feel. He'd thought that if England were happy, he'd be happy as well, that England's distress had been a burden on them both and that once it was lifted, they'd both be the better for it.

Instead, Peter's heart twisted unpleasantly in his chest, and a small voice began to whisper in the back of his mind- England was happy now, yes, but only because Peter had left. Peter had given up his home and his life, moved to another country to live with strangers. Peter had done all the compromising, all the work, and England was the one who was happy.

_It's not fair._

The thought surprised Peter. Unlike most children, he'd been born into war, raised on war, and had never known a life where things _were_ fair. The thought of unfairness had never crossed his mind with such bitterness behind it, and it surprised him. Surprised him, and frightened him as well.

"Hey there, shrimp!" A voice behind him said, and a hand pulled his hat off his head.

The owner of the voice, when Peter turned, was a tall, thin man with pale skin, white hair, and bright red eyes. Peter remembered seeing him a few times, usually around Germany and that Hungary lady with the frying pan. He was the former nation of Prussia, if he recalled.

"Hey!" Prussia's greeting had called attention to them both, and Peter turned around again to find himself staring up at England. "Out, both of you! You've got no business in here!"

"Aw, c'mon, Eyebrows, don't be a spoilsport!" Prussia said, laughing. "The awesome me's got business everywhere!"

* * *

Five minutes later, Peter and Prussia were sitting side by side on the building steps. Calling England 'Eyebrows' was one of the best ways to get yourself hurt, and Prussia sported a pretty impressive bruise on his cheek.

"Looks like it's just you and me now, kid." Prussia said, leaning back. "What's your name?"

"Sealand." Peter said. "You're Prussia, right?"

"Yeah. Hey, sorry about getting you kicked out. That England is such a tightass."

Part of Peter wanted to leap to England's defense, but that poisonous jealous whisper prompted him to agree instead. "He's such a bore. All he ever talks on is rules, rules, rules."

_And late at night when he thinks no one can hear him, he cries._ The still-loyal part of him spoke up, apparently not willing to let him not feel guilty. _And sometimes he wakes up screaming and begging from the pain that's the only reason you're alive._

Thankfully, Prussia was already talking about something else, something to do with how awesome he'd been in some battle. Peter didn't care, but he listened, anyway- anything to get his mind off the uncomfortable division in him over England's happiness and what he'd had to go through to see it.

"So anyway, wanna go get some ice cream? I nabbed some cash from my bro, so I'll pay."

Peter blinked, taking a moment to process that, then smiled. "I'd love some ice cream." He said, standing.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Prussia laughed, leaping to his feet, and swept Peter up with one arm before bounding down the steps and setting off in the direction of the nearest ice cream shop.

* * *

_Like already you can feel that five fingered noose around you neck_

_Two hundred pounds of hated engraved in the sacred soil of your flesh_

_Please_

_Please_

_Please_

_Please_

_Open_


	5. Chapter 5

_Already you're choking for your breath_

_Listening to the broken record of the defense_

_"Why am I on trial for this?_

_Would you talk to your sister_

_your daughter_

_Your mother like this?"_

* * *

Slowly, Peter began to get used to his new life. It wasn't so much the loving parents he had in the form of Berwald and Tino, or having a dog, or anything like that. The part that was taking so long to get over was the fact that now he had friends.

Prussia came over and took him out for ice cream. Once, he took him to a bar where the waitresses didn't wear shirts; Tino ran into them coming out, and Prussia had been in the hospital for _days_, and never took him to that sort of place again.

Denmark came over and even babysat him sometimes, because Berwald didn't want him getting into trouble. Denmark let him drink beer when he got to stay the night with Denmark's place. Norway's house got invaded a lot, and Peter privately thought that the best thing about Denmark was how Norway could defeat him with a single punch.

He met Prussia's brother Germany, who was a cool guy, even though he spent most of his time cooking and cleaning. He was all business, but let Peter call him Ludwig and made really amazing pancakes. He was even willing to help Peter learn how to make new dishes, including a birthday cake for Tino and homemade dog biscuits for Hana Tamago.

Coolest of all was Ukraine, who was Russia's big sister. She spent all day working on a farm and cried a lot, but she more than anyone was really patient with Peter. No matter what, Ukraine never got upset at him or told him what to do, and she was always happy to have him come help out for a while and never laughed when he talked about becoming a recognized nation.

Having friends, not being shunned – being welcomed, in fact – he came to realize that he was happy. Yes, he'd had to leave his home to make England happy, but he was happy, too. England slipped further and further from his mind. It was better for them both this way, so he resolved to just forget everything.

Too bad the world never let that sort of resolution last.

* * *

Peter still attended meetings in the hopes of being recognized as a nation at last. That dream, he wasn't going to give up on. Ever. He didn't seek England out, sort of avoided him usually.

That day, he hadn't been very careful. He'd gone charging across the room to Ludwig and Gilbert to say hello, and on the way back, he ran right into England.

Peter wasn't sure what was different about this time, but something was. For a moment, just a moment, England froze. Peter braced himself for the yelling of a lifetime, but it never came.

England's eyes glazed over as he started to tremble, stumbling backward and into the table and gripping the edge of it tightly.

"No."

England wasn't angry. He was terrified. Peter knew that tone, that helpless, shaky whisper- it was the same whisper he'd overheard countless times while spying on England, after phone calls or meetings or when he passed out on his office couch and had a nightmare. It was the tone of a man trapped, of someone who would give anything to just die right then, because death was preferable to what he knew was coming.

"No! Stay- stay back!"

Peter's heart spasmed, and he took a hesitant step forward, stopping when England flinched violently away from him. Or not him, exactly, but the memory he represented. The buried past that Peter had hoped England would never have to endure again.

"England, you okay?" America asked, laying a hand on England's shoulder, only to have it smacked off again as England stumbled away, panting with fear.

"Don't touch me, don't touch me!" England yelled. "Leave me alone, _God_, please, don't touch me!" He collapsed, sobbing, to his knees, holding his head with both hands.

Peter took another step forward, him being closest to England, but France had longer legs and could move faster- he beat Peter to England's side, pulling him close and whispering soothingly in French. England whimpered and tried to pull away at first, then suddenly reversed and clung to France, sobbing into his chest.

"I think, perhaps, that England and I will not be able to attend." France said, smiling up at the crowd around them. "I will see him safely home- don't worry over him."

"Can I-" Sealand started hesitantly.

"I think it best if you do not, little one." France said gently. "He needs only rest- perhaps you could stay here in his stead? I know you have lately had his best interests in your heart."

Sealand nodded, startled but hiding it. Did that mean France knew about him taking care of England, and he real reason he'd left England's household to live with Berwald and Tino? How had he found out?

England's fit was dying down, and he rested limp in France's arms as the man stood, cradling him like a child. In all the time Peter had watched France with England, he hadn't seen him so careful, so gentle and loving. It was just one more strange thing on top of everything else odd going on today.

France left the room, still carrying England. The rest of the nations fell into uncomfortable silence, broken only by awkward coughs and the shuffling of feet. It finally got to be too much, and Peter decided that if no one else was going to make the first move, he would.

"Okay, everybody, since England was supposed to host this meeting but England's not here and I'm standing in for him, I'm in charge!" He announced. "Everybody take your seats so we can get started!"

"Are you, like, totally sure you know what you're doing, kiddo?" Poland asked.

"I'm the great nation of Sealand." Peter said, waving a hand dismissively. "Of course I know. Also, I've spied on your meetings tons of times."

Glances shot across the room like the shiny silver balls in that arcade game America had taught him how to play on his computer. No one really seemed to want to let Peter take charge.

"Well," Hungary said after a minute, shrugging. "You heard the boss- everyone to your seats."

Peter smiled gratefully at her, and she smiled back, shooing him towards the head of the table where England usually sat. He trotted over and climbed into the chair, even though he had to kneel on the seat to be on a level with everyone else.

"Okay, first we'll go over what happened at the last meeting." Peter said eagerly, trying to act calm like England. "Then I'll ask if there's anything new, and America will interrupt me to draw on the blackboard and talk about a giant robot that can solve world hunger or something similar. I'll call him a git and we'll argue for three or four minutes. France isn't here, so someone else will have to interrupt us so we can gang up on them. Then everyone will start arguing with each other, and Germany will yell at everyone and take over."

Somewhere to the side, someone whispered appreciatively, "He really _does_ know what he's doing."

"Okay, let's get started. Who knows what happened at the last meeting?"

* * *

That night, instead of going back to the hotel with Tino, Peter had Berwald drive him to England's house. They went up to the door together, but Berwald hung back when Peter let himself in.

The hallway was unlit, but the kitchen light was on, so Peter went there, peeking around the doorway.

France was standing at the stove, cooking. Peter couldn't see his face from this angle, but his shoulders were drooping, and the way he stood made Peter think he must be exhausted and upset.

France turned to reach for something on the countertop and spotted Peter, smiling tiredly. "Come in, little one." He said. "Perhaps you can help- I no longer know the dishes my _ange_ enjoys."

Peter stepped into the kitchen, looking around. There was a mostly full bottle of wine on the table next to a half-full wine glass, along with the remains of one person's supper. The placing was set all wrong, so Peter figured it was probably France's meal.

"How is he?" Peter asked softly, going through the cupboards in search of the ingredients to make some of England's favorite dishes.

"As well as can be expected." France said, shrugging. "Today dealt him a cruel and unfair blow."

Peter nodded, pushing a chair up to the counter. "France, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, little one." France said, patting Peter's head in an absent, almost parental way. "Ask anything you please."

"How did you know?" Peter asked, finding a knife to slice the liver he'd found in the refrigerator. "About me caring for England, I mean? Can you get another knife and cut up some onion?"

France smiled, finding another knife. "I know my England, little Sealand." France said. "I have known him for a very long time. I know when he is alone, when he is cared for, and I have seen your face when you study him. I can see that you feel he does not eat enough, that he needs more sleep. You love him, little one. I need only have eyes to see that."

Peter blushed, looking down at his hands. They were very small hands, especially next to France's. He'd done his best, but it hadn't been enough.

"I do love him." He admitted quietly, and only because no one but France was around to hear him. "I love him a lot. He raised me, even though he didn't have to. He taught me so much during the War, and I wish... I wish I hadn't had to leave him. I wish I could protect him, but I'm not strong enough to do it."

France set his knife down, wrapping an arm around Peter. "Little one, you can never know how much you've helped him." He whispered. "I know it was you who cooked for him, not some faceless employee. I even saw you once, in his office, when he'd worked himself to exhaustion and you brought him a blanket. It was a blue one, with fairy wings on the corner."

"I made it myself." Peter said. "Because he has fairy friends. I couldn't give it to him myself, and he looked cold."

"He is lucky, little one, that a thing as beautiful as you came from something so ugly."

Peter pulled back, staring up at him. "You mean you know what happened?" He demanded.

"I have made guesses." France said. "There are ugly sides to love- I know them all. But I also know the beautiful sides of love, such as that which brought you here, where you feel unwanted, to be sure he is all right. Come, let us cook him a fine meal to help him recover."

Peter nodded, turning back to his work. England loved liver and onions, and maybe he had time to make him a custard pie, too, and maybe some biscuits for the morning before Berwald came in and said they had to be going.

True, it wasn't much. But maybe France was right, and it was enough.

* * *

_He is generations of sisters, mothers, daughters_

_Their bodies, battlefields_

_Wargrounds beneath the weapons of your brothers' hands_

_D' you know they found land mines in broken victim's souls?_

_Black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation_

_Bright as the light on infinity's halo_


	6. Chapter 6

_He says "I remember the way love used to glow like glitter on my skin,_

_before he made his way in._

_Now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify Medusa."

* * *

_

Berwald came in an hour later to get Peter. France had left the cooking to him, and he'd peeked in on England, who was sleeping peacefully, curled up underneath what looked like a mountain of blankets.

They drove back to the hotel in silence. Berwald wasn't much of a talker, and Peter didn't feel up to talking.

Tino was already asleep when they got there, with Hana Tamago curled up against him. Peter changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth before climbing into the second bed, waiting for Berwald to come tuck him in. Tino usually did that, but he didn't want to have to wake Tino up and become a burden on them.

Berwald changed as well, picking up the dog and depositing it on Peter's bed. Hana Tamago immediately wiggling into Peter's arms, licking his face enthusiastically.

"Papa Berwald, can I tell you something?" Peter asked, holding Hana Tamago tightly. "It's a secret. A really big one."

Berwald nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, his scary face looking very scary-serious.

Peter bit his lip, wondering if he was doing the right thing, then sighed. "England is- he's not my brother. He's... my father."

He almost stopped right there, but something about Berwald's face told him Berwald would know that wasn't it, so he took a deep breath and rushed through the rest.

"He's my father, but not in the normal way, because he gave birth to me, which sort of makes him my mother, except he didn't want me at all, he only got pregnant because someone, someone who's a nation like you and me, someone raped him, so that's why I put myself up for sale and came to live with you, because it hurts him to be near me, but you can't tell anyone."

That said, he dove under the covers, dog and all, worried about what Berwald might think of him now. There was a long moment of silence, then the blanket was pulled off and Berwald – scary-faced grunt-speak Berwald – picked Peter up and pulled him into a hug.

"S'a big secret." Berwald said quietly, rocking Peter a bit. "Yer brave t'hold it all in."

It should have sounded weird hearing someone so mean-looking say something so gentle, but Peter only felt as if he'd been carrying around a huge weight for years and Berwald had just taken it from him. Hana Tamago squirmed out of his hold, so he wrapped his arms around Berwald instead and buried his face in his papa's shirt and cried.

* * *

The next day, Peter didn't go to the meeting. He couldn't risk giving England another attack. He stayed behind at the hotel, watching telly all morning until he thought if he heard someone say 'boys and girls' one more time, he was going to go very noisily mad. When there was a knock at the door, Peter half-hoped it was a murderer who would be kind enough to shoot him in the head so he didn't have to deal with everything.

It wasn't a murderer at all. In point of fact, it was Gilbert, carrying a large shopping bag.

"Finland told me you weren't feeling well." Gilbert said, barging in and dropping the bag on the table. "But your face tells me you've got brother trouble."

"Do not." Peter said, digging in the bag. It was full of ice cream, sweets, and cans of pop, along with a few cans of beer and two water pistols.

"Some sort of family trouble having to do with England." Gilbert said, shrugging. "So us awesome guys are skipping a meeting to eat ice cream and talk about it. You know you can tell me anything- we're buds!"

"Not this." Peter disagreed, finding a spoon and opening a carton of ice cream. "This is a secret."

"There are no secrets that have to be kept from the awesome me." Gilbert insisted, prodding Peter's shoulder with one finger. "You're my buddy, you're not allowed to keep secrets! It's in the rules!"

"I can't." Peter said. "Let's just watch a movie on telly or something."

"Tell me!" Gilbert said, whining. "Tell me, or you're not my best buddy anymore!"

Peter bit his lip. True, Gilbert really was his best friend next to Raivis, and it did seem unfair to keep secrets from him. But this was really England's secret. So... maybe he could tell his part of the secret without telling England's?

Gilbert flopped onto the nearer bed, obviously prepared to wait Peter out. Peter wavered for several minutes more before sighing.

"Okay, so say I know someone." Peter said. "This person's a friend of mine, and he's... um... his parents aren't together." He knew how humans had children, so he went with that. "His mom is... well... she- his father, this person's father is a good guy, or everyone thinks he is, but he did something awful, and that's how my friend was born."

Gilbert sat up straighter, nodding. "Okay, I see what you're saying. Do you know who this friend's father is?"

"No." Peter said truthfully. "He's just part of a group of people who are supposed to be good. He's... a representative. But he hurt En- my friend's mom, so he's obviously not good like they all pretend to be. And my friend wants to find his father, but doesn't know how to without letting his mother know."

Gilbert nodded again. "Has your friend considered that his mom doesn't want him to know?" He asked. "That maybe it was a one-time mistake and maybe it's better for everyone if it stays buried?"

"No!" Peter burst out, all his rage at his unknown second father bubbling to the surface. "England's still suffering from it, and the person who hurt him has to be brought to justice, no matter what!"

"No matter who that person might be or how much they're still suffering, too?"

"He's not suffering enough!" Peter insisted. "He can never suffer enough for how much he's made England cry! I don't care who it is!"

"Even if it's me?"

* * *

The ice cream was melting. Peter didn't care.

He was completely alone. Peter didn't care.

It was getting dark. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He didn't care about any of it.

Gilbert was gone. He'd left hours ago, but Peter had yet to move, struggling to come to grips with what Gilbert had said. Could Gilbert be his father? Really? It didn't seem possible. Gilbert was so nice. Gilbert played with him and took him out to ice cream. And England hated Gilbert- there was no way England would ring Gilbert up in the middle of the night to be comforted, right?

Finally, Peter stood. He couldn't stand being alone in the empty hotel room anymore. He needed to get out, to find someone to talk to. Now.

* * *

Peter found his way to the park. It was empty, so he sat on the swings. It was the lonely sort of thing kids do when they don't know how to make everything okay- go somewhere with good memories and try to just be happy again.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for him to have to deal with all of this. He was just an offshore fort with a tiny population. Most people in the world had never even heard of him. Why did he have to know all these terrible secrets? Why did these secrets even have to exist.

"I wish I'd never been born."

The swing next to him creaked, and Peter looked up to see a woman in a business suit sitting on it. She was young, with a pretty face and hair pulled back in a bun.

"You're too young to wish that, love." She said. "You're supposed to be carefree at your age."

"I'm not normal for my age." Peter said, looking back down at his knees. "I wish I was."

"What's wrong, love?" She asked, reaching over and running her fingers through his hair, the way Ukraine sometimes did if she caught him looking sad. "You can tell me."

Peter hesitated, glancing up at her again. "My name's Peter." He said. "Peter Kirkland."

"My name's Sally, Peter." She said. "You can tell me what's wrong- I'll keep it secret."

Peter bit his lip, trying to refuse, but the urge to talk to _someone_ was too much.

"It's Arthur. My father." He said quietly. "He hates me."

"Now, Peter, I'm sure that's not true."

"It is!" Peter insisted stubbornly. "He stuck me on that stupid fort as soon as he could and never let me go home! He just left me there to rot, and he didn't even care when I went to live at Berwald's house all the way in Sweden! He's glad I'm gone, and he hates me!"

Sally got off the swing and knelt on the ground in front of Peter, getting grass all over her nice clean slacks, and held her arms open. Peter knew an offered hug when he saw one, and he tumbled off the swing and into her lap, sobbing.

It was hard and painful to admit England had hurt him by abandoning him. It hurt even more to face the fact that he really _had_ been abandoned. He could list all the reasons in the world, and it would still hurt.

Sally held him just like he'd seen mothers hold other children, exactly the way Berwald had held him just last night, and let him cry all over her nice clothes until the tears stopped coming and he was exhausted.

"Come on, love," Sally said, standing up and setting Peter on his feet. "I'll take you home."

"Sweden's a long way off to walk." Peter said with a weak smile, deciding her really liked Sally. "We're in a hotel just round the corner, though."

"Then we'll walk that far." Sally said with her own smile. "I'm sure someone's worrying over you."

Peter nodded, deciding not to say that Berwald and Tino were at a meeting and didn't even know he was gone.

They left the park in silence and made the walk to the hotel without talking. Sally took him into the lobby and gave him a hug before he went upstairs. That made it a bit easier to go back into the empty hotel room, to turn on the lights and clean up the ice cream all over the table. Then he climbed into bed with Hana Tamago and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

_His friend knocks on the door_

_"It's been three weeks_

_Don't you think it's time you got out of bed?"_

_"No._

_The breeze still feels like his breath_

_I think I need just a couple more days of rest_

_Please."_


	7. Chapter 7

_Bruises on his knees from praying to forget._

_He heard stories of Vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs_

_He's wondering how many people are walking around this world_

_Feeling the tingling of their amputated wings_

_Remembering what it was to fly, to sing_

* * *

Peter slept restlessly, waking partway when Berwald and Tino came back, and a dozen other times throughout the night. He was haunted by vague dreams too fuzzy to really be nightmares, just the strange sense that he was on a boat and it was sinking, that everything was falling apart.

Finally, he woke and stayed awake, staring up at the ceiling as it slowly got lighter outside. On the other bed, Tino was up first, moving quietly around getting ready for the day. Berwald woke up not long after, and Peter shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He didn't want to be cheerful.

Finally, the door opened and closed and the room was silent. Peter counted to ten, then back to zero, before he sat up and pushed off the covers, only to have a paper land on his lap.

"You have some explaining to do, Peter." Tino said, sitting down on the bed.

The paper was a local one, widely read and mostly utter rubbish, and it was open to the editorials. Peter picked it up, looking it over, and immediately found what it was Tino wanted explained.

**KIRKLAND BRITAIN'S WORST FATHER**

_The title of 'worst father' is not one lightly given in my column, as my readers well know. I will allow for fathers who are trying, and fathers who haven't a chance to try. But there are things that are inexcusable, and the case of one Arthur Kirkland, prominent politician, is just such a thing._

_Kirkland's private life resists all attempts at probing, and so many of my readers may not be aware he has a son. Kirkland's son is a sweet, lonely boy callously cast to the wayside like so much rubbish. The child obviously cares very deeply for his father, yet when I spoke with him, he professed to be certain his father hates him and is glad he's run away to live in Sweden._

_Bad enough a child might feel unloved, but to feel his father can only be made happy by his absence, not simply from their home but from their home country, is simply monstrous. Kirkland has done irreversible damage to a bright, sensitive, loving boy who must now live with strangers in a strange country simply to feel he is welcome._

CONT. PG 14

Peter set the paper down without searching up the rest of the column and looked up at Tino, not sure what to say. He tried not to notice that his hands were trembling slightly, curling them in the sheets to keep Tino from seeing.

"Well?" Tino pressed, expression unreadable.

"I didn't know she wrote for a paper." Peter said at length, looking down. "I was just lonely, and wanted someone to talk to."

"Prussia said he was going to come spend time with you."

"But Gilbert- he said he was my other father!" Peter burst out, jumping off the bed and turning his back to Tino. "I couldn't talk to him!"

"So it's true, what the paper says? England's your father?" Peter nodded. "How long have you known?"

"Ages." Peter confessed. "Long before I sold myself. I sold myself so he wouldn't have to remember anymore."

"And the other day?" Tino asked, picking Peter up and settling the boy in his lap.

"He remembered." Peter said, curling up against Tino's chest without thinking. "I didn't mean for him to, but..."

"It's all right, Peter." Tino said with a sigh. "There's no taking it back now, so we might as well go see what the damage is. Maybe nobody else gets this paper."

* * *

The conference hall was buzzing with quiet conversation when Peter entered with Tino and Berwald. The noise stopped almost immediately, and the gathered nations all turned to stare at them. No one seemed to want to be the first to say anything.

Finally, Peter cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Is England here?"

"Like, nobody's seen him today." Poland said. "Look, is this paper, like, totally on the level? Is England really your dad?"

Peter barely heard him, already back out the door.

* * *

He ran into France halfway down the street and discovered that England wasn't at home, meaning there was only one place he could be.

The drive to England's office probably only took five minutes or so, but it felt like years. The hallway was deserted, and the door was locked, but Peter had long ago figured out how to foil the lock, and quickly got it open.

England sat at his desk, head pillowed on his arms, shoulders shaking. The morning paper lay on the floor, having obviously been thrown there with considerable force.

"Go away." England said, voice hoarse from crying.

"England-"

"_Go away!_" England yelled, cutting Peter off. He sat up, glaring across the small office at him, not even noticing France. "Haven't you ruined my life enough for one day, brat? Get out!"

Peter stared for a moment- England's eyes were red and puffy and held more than a hint of fear. And finally, like a light going off in his head, Peter understood. He understood why England couldn't bear to look at him. Where that fear came from, and how to lay it to rest.

He took the six quick steps to the desk, jumped up on it, and dropped into England's lap, wrapping his arms around him. He felt England tense like he was going to push him off, so he tightened his grip just a bit.

"I'm not him." He said firmly. "I'm not him, I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise. I won't hurt you, ever, no matter what. I'll protect you. You don't have to be scared anymore."

England stayed tense for what felt like centuries. Then he moved, lifting his arms and wrapping them around Peter. They'd never hugged each other before- it felt weird, but it also felt right.

"You're safe." Peter said, petting England's hair. "I'm here, and you're safe."

England hugged him tighter and burst into tears all over again, but something told Peter that this time, the tears were a good thing.

* * *

_Tonight_

_He's not wondering what you would tell your daughter_

_He knows what you would tell your daughter_

_He's asking what gods do you believe in_

_I'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them_

_Pick the brightest star you've ever wished on_

_I'll show you the light in you that made that wish come true_


	8. Chapter 8

_Tonight_

_He's not asking what you would tell your daughter_

_He's leg deep in the hell of this slaughter_

_He's already died a thousand deaths_

_With every unsteady breath_

_A thousand ways_

_And every pore of his flesh_

_And he knows the war's not over_

_Knows there's bleeding to come_

_Knows he's far from the only one trusting this world_

_No more than hands trust rusted barbed wire_

* * *

The next few days passed in a kind of absent haze. If asked, Peter would honestly say he couldn't remember anything but that there'd been a lot of crying and a lot of tea. He and England had talked a while each day. Peter was pretty sure they both spent most of that while apologizing. They spent a long while in silence, curled up together under the blanket Peter had spent months painstakingly making for England.

It was different, and it was exhausting, but something about it felt right. Something about it felt, deep down inside, wonderful. Somehow, despite the crying and the apologizing and the ever-looming fact that soon they'd part ways again, those long hours with England where they didn't fight and no one was yelling were... nice.

The time did come, however, when the meetings were over and it was time to go home. Peter couldn't sleep the night before, lying awake in his hotel bed petting Hana Tamago and watching the shadows on the ceiling. He was torn all over again, between being happy that he and England were finally, finally acting like father and son, and fear.

He was afraid, he admitted, that this wasn't going to last. That once the shock wore off, England would go back to before, to avoiding and hating him. For all he was older than he looked, for all he'd been through, Peter was still a child, with a child's fears and a child's vulnerable heart. He didn't know if he could bear for England to abandon him again.

So he lied awake all night, afraid. He didn't even pretend to have slept when Berwald and Tino woke- simply got up and went to prepare for the day. Berwald watched him impassively, but Sealand had learned that Berwald did _everything_ impassively, and that there were gears turning in the big man's mind.

Tino's expression was more open and much easier to read- he was worried, and kept gnawing on his lip fit to tear the skin right off if he wasn't careful. Peter hated making them worry, but he simply couldn't muster the energy to be his usual self for them. It was all he could do to smile before he started packing.

He packed his clothing and the books and toys Tino had insisted he bring. He packed Hana Tamago's ball and spare leash. Under the bed, he found a shopping bag of water pistols and sat on the floor, staring into it. Two pistols- one red and one blue. The blue one was for him, he knew, because Gilbert would never have given up the red one.

Gilbert. Had Gilbert been telling the truth in claiming to be his father? England would know, but did he dare ask?

Of course he didn't. That would be unspeakably cruel of him.

But he knew who he could ask.

"Papa Berwald, Papa Tino," He said, standing and turning to them. "I... I need to do something. I can't go home yet."

Tino bit his lip harder. Berwald put a hand on Tino's shoulder and nodded. "Do what needs doing." Berwald said. "Y'need money?"

Peter nodded, flushing slightly. "Can you buy me a plane ticket? I need to go to Germany."

* * *

Saying good-bye to England had been painful in a way Peter hadn't expected. He'd expected to miss England once they were apart again, and he expected to be sad to have to leave him once more, but he hadn't been prepared for the sharp, twisting pain in his heart. He felt as though someone had run him through with a sword, as if his heart were burning up inside him, and the pain made him cry.

England cried as well, and they hugged. They hadn't hugged Peter's entire life half as much as they'd hugged in the past three days.

Peter went with Tino and Berwald to the airport. Berwald took him to the ticket counter and bought him a seat on a plane to Munich. His flight didn't leave for nearly five hours, because he'd asked Berwald to be sure he left after Ludwig and Gilbert, so he took his suitcase to the proper gate and sat down out of the way to wait.

Five hours in Heathrow was... interesting. There was so much shouting, children running about, yelling and baggage handlers and pretty stewardesses. Peter held tightly to his ticket and watched everything move past him, like ocean water around the massive columns that were the base of his micronation self.

He managed to doze off at one point, exhausted, and was woken by a pretty blonde lady with a wide smile who told him it was time to board.

He let her take his suitcase, gave his ticket to another lady, and stepped onto the plane. He was sat at a window near the back, and the blonde lady stowed his suitcase overheard once he got out a book to read. The flight would only be about two hours long, and he didn't want to fall asleep.

A portly man was in the seat next to him, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase. His face was red and he sweated a lot. The aisle seat was for a thin old lady who talked loudly across the aisle to her friend about how rude young people were these days.

Peter was used to plane rides by now, and barely noticed the plane taking off. He simply opened his book and began to read. It was best if he didn't think about what he planned to do.

* * *

Peter's book was long finished by the time the plane touched down in Munich. Berwald had given him plenty of spending money, in case he needed it, and from the airport he took a cab to the trains. Gilbert had invited him to come spend the summer, so he knew where they lived, and bought a ticket on the right line to get there.

The train ride was long, but Peter knew it would be, so he settled back with another book, tucked in a corner at the window. The conductor who checked his ticket spoke only German and a little English, but they managed a decent conversation- the conductor's children apparently liked the same books Peter did.

When they finally, finally reached Berlin, Peter grabbed his bag and hurried off the train and onto the crowded platform. He knew the address he needed, but not how to get there from the station- he needed a map and a cabby who spoke English.

The map was easy to find, and he paid for it almost proudly. The lady at the stand smiled at him, called him sweet, and gave him a lolli for free. He made sure to thank her politely and went to an empty space, spreading the map out on the ground and searching for Südende.

About the time he decided whoever designed Berlin's streets was mad, a shadow fell over the map and someone crouched next to him, breaking his concentration. He looked up, squinting against the afternoon sun, at Ludwig.

"What are you doing here, Sealand?" Ludwig asked, frowning.

"I want to see Gilbert." Peter said. "I have to ask him something, and it's very important. He told me your address."

Ludwig sighed, shaking his head. "If it's important, I'll take you to see him." He said, standing up and offering Peter his hand. It was large, calloused, but warm and gentle. Like Berwald, Ludwig really only _looked_ scary.

Ludwig's car was old but looked brand-new. He probably spent a lot of time on it. The seat was deep and comfortable, and Peter settled back with his bag in his lap, watching Berlin out the window.

"What did you want to ask Gilbert?" Ludwig asked after several minutes of driving in silence. "I don't think you'd be going to my brother for advice."

"No, I have to ask him if something he said was true." Peter said, not looking away from the window. If Gilbert had been lying, maybe he would come spend the summer, anyway. Hopefully he wouldn't burn the way Scotland did in the sun.

"What did he say?" Ludwig pressed, but in such a casual voice that Peter answered without really thinking.

"He said he's my other father." Ludwig always read the papers, so he had to know about England being his father by now.

The car came to an abrupt stop, almost pitching Peter off the seat, and he turned to find Ludwig staring at him.

"He said _what_?"

"Th-that he's my other father." Peter said, swallowing apprehensively. "Do... do you know if he was telling the truth?"

"He was lying." Ludwig said, taking off again, faster than before. His expression was pained and a bit grim. "Gilbert is not your father, Sealand.

"I am."

* * *

The next thing Peter knew, he was sitting in a chair in Ludwig's sitting room. His bag was on the ground at his feet, and Ludwig was sitting across the room from him, rubbing his temples as if they hurt.

"Why?" Peter asked. He had no idea what had happened between the car and here, but he knew he hadn't asked that yet, and it was what he wanted to know the most. "Why did you do that to England?"

"I don't know if you can understand." Ludwig said, sighing. "I don't even understand. I don't know- it was as though something possessed me. I... I don't want to say these things to you."

"You have to." Peter insisted. "You owe me it. You owe me telling me why, at least!"

Ludwig winced but nodded. "You're right, of course." He sighed again. "You're young, and you've been in war, but have you ever been in _battle_? Pitched battle, where people die? Where you take life, in cold blood? Have you ever felt battle lust?"

Peter bit his lip and shook his head. He'd seen some fighting on the fort, but it had mostly been long and boring and dull, and he knew it was nothing like pitched battle.

"Battle lust doesn't stop when the battle does, Sealand." Ludwig said, standing and walking to the window. One of his dogs rose to its feet and padded over, nosing at his hand; he pet it absently, staring out at the street. "The urge to hurt doesn't stop when there's no one left to fight. We fought, and I lost to battle lust. England lost that battle to me, and I lost it to myself. I wanted to hurt him badly, and I did. In ways I can never atone for. I let myself do something unforgivable- to him, and to you."

"You're not making excuses." Peter said quietly, almost accusingly. He wanted Ludwig to make excuses. He wanted to be able to maintain his towering hate and rage. He wanted to be justified in hating the man who'd hurt his England.

"There are no excuses." Ludwig said. He knelt on the rug, running his hands along the dog's flanks. "There are no excuses, and no atonement. It's not the only irredeemable sin I've committed- I stopped making excuses a long time ago."

"I want to hate you."

"You have every right."

"Why can't I hate you?"

"Hate is a dark, ugly thing, Peter- it doesn't become someone as bright as you."

Peter stared, his brain taking a moment to process that that was the first time he knew of Ludwig calling him by his given name.

"I don't hate you." He whispered, looking down at his hands. His vision was blurry. He must be about to cry. "I want to hate you, but I don't."

"Forgive me, Peter, but I'm glad." Ludwig said just as softly.

A long moment passed in uncomfortable silence, stretching on endlessly until finally Peter stood. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Ludwig's neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

"I forgive you." Maybe England didn't, and maybe Ludwig didn't forgive himself, but they couldn't all go on hating and regretting. France had been right in saying something beautiful had come out of something ugly, and if Peter was going to be beautiful, he had to be able to spread it. "I forgive you."

* * *

_He was whole before that night_

_Believed in heaven before that night_

_And he won't be the only one_

_He knows he won't be the only one_


	9. Epilogue

It was summer and burning hot out. The sun shone fiercely on the ocean waters and the sand of the beach. Typical British August, for all they had a reputation of perpetual rain.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"Something has amused you, _ange_?" Francis asked from next to him, and Arthur shook his head, gesturing out at the waterline.

Sealand, soaked to the bone and laughing, played in the waters just off-shore. He wasn't alone down there, either- these summer visits, Sealand's own idea, always included his 'papas' Sweden and Finland, the family dog, and Germany and Prussia. The five of them all played in the waves while Hana Tamago yapped at them from the shallows.

"He's happy." Arthur said. "Truly happy."

It had been nearly seven years since he and his son had been reunited and started rebuilding their relationship. In those seven years, much healing had been done, on many fronts. After seven years, he could watch Sealand and Germany and not feel cold fear in the pit of his stomach. He could look at the boy and see, not the blood-spattered soldier who'd raped him, but a kind, loving, well-meaning boy with an unbelievably huge heart. He could look at Germany and see the regret and sorrow he'd been willfully blind to before. He could look, and see what was really there. No shadows, no memories.

Arthur glanced to the side and caught Francis smiling at him. There was another change- after the attack, after discovering he was pregnant, Arthur had pushed Francis away in every way he could, and Francis had simply waited patiently. And now Arthur knew that the thing that had driven them apart didn't have to touch them at all.

"You've learned much, my angel." Francis said, turning back to the group in the water. "As have they. As have I. And all from one little boy with a very large soul. You are lucky."

"So you keep telling me." Arthur snorted, sighing. "It's almost tea time."

"Indeed. Shall we go inform the children?"

Arthur snorted again, standing and stretching, and headed for the waterline. He wasn't even aware Francis was with him until he reached the waves and was promptly shoved forward, tumbling under and coming up sputtering.

"Hey, you can't do that to England!" Sealand exclaimed, laughing. "This means war, France!"

France laughed, dancing backwards, and Prussia tackled him, sending sand flying in every direction. Hana Tamago ran to the two, yapping and licking at their faces in excitement.

England stood, shaking water from his hair, and smiled down at Sealand. "Shall we?"

Sealand smiled back, slipping his hand into Arthur's and squeezing. "We shall."

Tea could wait.

* * *

_Tonight_

_He's not asking what you gonna tell your daughter_

_He's asking what you gonna teach your son._


End file.
